


Game of Thrones Drabble Week (I)

by Maracuya



Series: Game of Thrones Drabble Week [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss of Virginity, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 13:45:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/pseuds/Maracuya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will be a series of drabbles /one-shots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 - An animal misbehaves

**Author's Note:**

> You're very welcome to participate in/start a Game of Thrones Drabble Week as well! It's NOT restricted to SanSan. ;-) The more, the merrier!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction/fanart. I do not profit from the stories or drawings, nor would I  
> ever seek to do so. All credit for characters, plot and settings go to the respective original author or artist.

 

  
Sansa was so very nervous. The king! He had just arrived in Winterfell! They had all lined up in the yard to greet him.

  
Hm. To be honest, King Robert didn't look exactly... glorious. For a moment, Sansa was disappointed to see the fat, elderly man, who rather resembled a drunkard. But, oh! How beautiful the queen looked in comparison! Radiating! A true lady! And there was her oldest son at her side.

  
Sansa's heart beat faster. Prince Joffrey - he was so handsome with his golden locks and his elegant posture!

  
While her father and the king were still hugging and jesting Sansa had only eyes for the prince.

  
But then... the catastrophe happened. Lady appeared out of nowhere. Sansa gasped in shock. How was this possible? All the direwolves had been locked away!

  
Yet, there was her pet, right in the middle of the arriving party.

  
"What kind of foul beast is this!?" Prince Joffrey suddenly commented with a cruel pout on his lips.

  
"Lady! Lady!" Sansa called out to her animal desperately and hoped that her obedient, sweet Lady would approach her at once.

  
"That's _your_ monster?" the golden-haired boy spat and Sansa's heart sank.

  
How could he call Lady a monster?

  
She was just about to open her mouth to appease the situation... when Lady suddenly turned around, lowered her behind - and peed onto the prince's legs!

  
Joffrey shrieked in disgust, and so did his highly offended mother.

  
Sansa's cheeks burned in shame, and she burst into tears. Oh, the humiliation!

  
Behind the prince, however, there was loud, raucous, grating laughter. Sansa looked up and saw a huge, muscled warrior with a horribly scarred face.

  
"Looks as if that animal needs a proper training," he rasped gleefully.

  
Joffrey was seething then and ranted: "Hound! How dare you laugh about me in front of all these people!? - Mother, I demand that the Hound be released from his post! He's a Dog, the grandson of a kennel master; leave him here with these wolf people. He fits here! And I want to have that damned wolf's fur for this disgrace!"

  
"NOOO! She's just an animal, my Lady, and she's still young and doesn't know it any better," Sansa cried.

  
Finally, King Robert took control of the situation and boomed: "Enough of this shit! Clegane, your behaviour is indeed highly disrespectful and cannot be tolerated around my son. - Ned, please take him over. He's good with animals, better than with men. Let him teach the direwolf. - And Joffrey, no, this animal may be a stupid beast, but it's not even worth the effort to get the fur. We'll go hunting together, and then you'll get your fur from an animal you've managed to hunt down. Anything else wouldn't be dignified."

  
At once, Sansa was relieved that Lady wouldn't be killed, but her father was pulling a face nevertheless. So was the scarred warrior.

  
Meanwhile, the king went on rumbling: "Seven hells. Seems as if I have to make new wedding plans, Ned. Don't think my Joff and your Sansa will grow fond of each other any more. Well, whatever. And now, let's visit the catacombs. I want to see her. Lyanna."

  
Two weeks later, the king and his queen left again - with Sansa's father as the new Hand in tow, and with Sansa's little brother Bran, who had been betrothed to Princess Myrcella.

  
All the other children were left behind, especially Sansa. She was disappointed that she wouldn't see her father for a long time and wouldn't get to know King's Landing, but she said to herself that she didn't want to be around people that called Lady a "monster".

  
At least, her wolf's new trainer, Sandor Clegane, seemed to like the direwolves. Lady was already besotted with him, for whatever reason, and he also sparred with her remaining brothers and her sister Arya, so she was slowly coming to like him as well, despite his rough looks. Sansa sighed. She had had other dreams, but probably... probably reality was better this way.


	2. Love & relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post ADwD.

 

Sansa was pacing her solar in Winterfell like a direwolf in a cage, to and fro, to and fro, circle, circle, to and fro.

“Sandor should have been back for two weeks from his revenge mission in the Vale,” she was thinking desperately. “Where is he? Oh, what has happened to him?”

Her hand rested protectively on her swelling tummy.

Sansa had felt from the beginning that it was too much of a risk to travel to the Vale and to kill Petyr Baelish for having abducted her. They had made it here, to Winterfell, and they had only found death and ruins here – and wights. But Sandor had defended them, they had survived, and then, the survivors from the Wall, which had collapsed after some kind of magic horn had been blown, had arrived.

With them, Jon had come home. He was strangely altered, and not only because his Ghost had died. He himself had been stabbed to death by his comrades and had been revived by a creepy red priestess. No wonder he wasn't quite himself any more!

Shortly after, Stannis and his few leftover soldiers had turned up as well. He and Sansa had postponed their discussion of who'd be king or queen – and where – for later; in this castle, Sansa was the leader, especially with Sandor at her side. Apart from that, he was mourning his daughter and his wife and had more or less locked up himself with that red sorceress Sandor had detested on instinct.

Next had come... Nymeria! Shortly followed by Rickon, who had been found by Ser Davos Seaworth and kept safely hidden by the Manderlys, and Shaggydog. What a wild reunion that had been!

Winterfell had been like a magnet. They had pooled their forces and also started to repair the castle and to fight for their survival. Much sooner than they had believed the temperatures had risen again, together with the sun.

Sandor had declared then that he'd leave to kill the Mockingbird. No pleading on her part had been able to sway his mind. He had been determined to kill Petyr Baelish, like he had once been intent on finishing off is monstrous brother.

The problem was that the improved weather had been a false spring. Sandor had been gone for two months when the winter returned with all its might. And now, Sansa could only hope and wait. Hope and wait. Back and forth. Circle. And again.

Another snow storm was rising.

Had Sandor come across any wights? Had Littlefinger outmanoeuvred him? Gods, she needed to know!

Suddenly, the door opened and Jon came in. His face was always... so remote these days! Sansa had intended to try to establish a better relationship between them, and to be a better sister for him than in the past, but Jon had kept his distance. Not only to her. To all of them. The only one who could still get access to him was a wildling woman named Val.

Sansa sighed. Perhaps Jon's aloofness served her right for her arrogance in the past.

“What is it, Jon? Any news?”

Her brother cleared his throat and answered: “There is a man in tatters down in the court. Just arrived before the storm could tear him apart. Barely recognisable any more, and without his horse, but he still has got his scars.”

A hand flew to Sansa's mouth, and then, she yelled at the top of her lungs: “Sandor! Sandor!”

It was unladylike, but she did not care and ran, skirts billowing behind her.

In the court, white mist rose from her mouth, it was biting cold as usually.

And there he was!

Limping, in little more than ice-crusted rags, alone, dirty, smelly... but it was Sandor! He was alive!

Seconds later, they were both clinging to each other.

“Little Bird, oh my Little Bird!” Sandor whined.

“You're back!” she breathed. “Come in! You need a warm bath! Gods, Sandor, you're such a fool, I scared myself to death! Travelling in this horrible weather! I thought the wights or Petyr had caught you.”

Sandor was totally exhausted and looked partly as if he was feeling guilty... but there was also a very lively gleam in his eyes.

“Little Bird, have you ever seen a hound that would let go of his prey?” he rasped – and then, he dropped a piece of metal into her hand.

It was a silver pin in the shape of a mockingbird.


	3. An execution is cancelled

 

Sansa couldn't believe what she was seeing and hearing. They were there, in front of Baelor's Sept, the masses were hooting and yelling, her father had just admitted being a traitor, hoping he'd be allowed to return to the north and to take the black at the Wall – but now, Joffrey was announcing that he'd show her father the justice and the mercy of the king... and he ordered her father's execution! No, no, no! This was not possible! Even Cersei was looking incredulous now; this was clearly her son's doing, not her own one's. But Sansa couldn't care less.

 

With bewilderment she saw how her shocked father was pushed further by the Hound, how her father was forced onto his knees and how Ser Ilyn Payne was approaching her father with Ice, her family's Valyrian longsword. Sansa lost control and started to wail.

 

Suddenly, the Hound bellowed above the howling of the masses: “Your Grace, this man's son will surely be as treacherous as his father. He'll declare war on you, I'm sure. Shouldn't be difficult to wipe the northern bastards out though. Don't you want to wait with the father's execution until you can serve him his son's bloody head? Would be nice for that traitor to really see how very wrong he's been!”

 

For a moment, Joffrey gaped and took the words in while Ser Ilyn hesitated. Then, the King's face split into a malicious smirk.

 

“Hound, you've got the best ideas! Let's crush the northern bastards for good! Let the son show his father the way into the afterlife! Hahahaha!”

 

If it was still possible at all, Sansa's father looked even more horrified now.

 

Suddenly, Ser Meryn spoke up: “What about those people? They've come to see a show. You've got to give them something, Your Grace!”

 

Joffrey nodded then and announced: “Good people of King's Landing! The northern traitor of King's Landing has been condemned to death, and the actual killing will be termed right after his eldest son's death. Like father, like son. Robb Stark is a traitor, too. Now, there is one wrong that can be righted today. Not knowing of the falseness of these winter vipers I bound myself to them by promising my hand to marry Sansa Stark. I declare this unholy betrothal annulled. A king cannot be expected to marry a traitorous wolf bitch! High Septon?”

 

Sansa couldn't believe her ears any more and didn't know how to react. She only stood there, frozen to the spot.

 

The surprised High Septon advanced, cleared his throat and stammered obediently: “It is true. His Grace, King Joffrey, is not bound to this woman any more after having been betrayed in the worst possible way.”

 

Joffrey grinned in delight then and yelled: “Good people of King's Landing, you've heard the holy man's words. Now, we only have to make sure that the Starks will never pose a threat to the realm again. I'll be lenient with the Stark bitch, because she's only a weak woman. I'll let her live and give her to someone, who can control her. High Septon, you'll perform a different kind of duty today than we had thought. Hound, step ahead! I command you to marry Sansa Stark. A dog and a wolf will surely make a nice pairing, and you'll know how to keep her in check.”

 

Sounds of levity and malicious snorts, hooting and clapping and the stomping of feet arose from the mob at their feet.

 

Sansa felt incredibly sick all of a sudden, as she saw the Hound step closer. In broad daylight, his red scars looked as awful as ever, his jaws were working, and his slate eyes were a stormy hurricane.

 

Surely, the Queen Mother, Cersei, would forbid such a marriage? This was an outrageous situation! Yet, the golden-haired Lioness kept silent.

 

“Lady Sansa”, Joffrey went on loudly, “my wedding present for you is that your father will be allowed to lead you to your bridegroom. Come, northern traitor! Look where your actions have lead you and your family!”

 

He cackled, and the crowd mimicked the king's behaviour.

 

Lord Eddard Stark rose onto his feet again and limped to Sansa.

 

“Father!” Sansa whispered to the man, who was only a shadow of his former self after the imprisonment and the latest developments. His eyes were full of pain.

 

“Oh Sansa, I'm so sorry!” he murmured while he was taking her hand.

 

Slowly, they made it to where Sandor Clegane was standing. When they arrived the scarred warrior looked her father in the eyes and growled under his breath, so that no-one else could hear it in that pandemonium: “Bad, this. But better me than him, don't you think? I'll try to keep her safe.”

 

Sansa thought she must have misheard, and her father looked accordingly gobsmacked. The Hound offering her shelter? What kind of jape was this? Still, her father suddenly nodded the tiniest fraction, as if he had accepted the words. Well, there was nothing else he could do anyway.

 

A few seconds later, the High Septon was there, and her father – who was still begging her forgiveness with his eyes – put her hands into the huge, calloused ones of the Hound, who had just taken off his gauntlets.

 

The procedure was over all too fast, and the mob was roaring from entertainment, especially when the Hound gave Sansa a very short, little peck near her mouth.

 

She couldn't believe it. The ghastly Hound – her husband?

 

Before she could think about it any further (not that her brain functioned appropriately anyway) her father was led back to the dungeons, and it was then that Sansa started to weep again. Joffrey was cackling like mad and ordered Sandor Clegane to go and bed her at once. Then, he left the scene with his mother and the other dignitaries. Slowly, the people started to disperse as well, now that the big show was over.

 

The Hound helped her onto his huge, black courser and then sat behind her to take her back to the Red Keep.

 

While they were trundling down the street, her bridegroom murmured into her ear: “I did what I could. It bought your father some time. A lot may happen. Joffrey might well die before him, given the way he is ruling the Seven Kingdoms.”

 

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa whispered shyly.

 

“I'm no lord!” he rasped back. “But you are still a child, aren't you? You haven't even bled, am I right?”

 

Sansa blushed and shook her head.

 

The Hound looked disgusted.

 

“Seven Hells! I've got no taste for children, and even less for frightened ones. I'll cut myself a little and smear the blood on the linen.”

 

“Won't the king find out?”

 

“Fuck the king! I won't hurt you. I'll keep you safe. That's what I promised your father.”

 

It was then, that Sansa turned around and looked at Sandor Clegane like she had never done before.

 

With conviction she said to him: “You may have done bad things in the past, but you're a better man than everyone takes you for. You saved father. Whatever will happen – you'll always have a place in my heart for what you've done.”

 

And then, she gently put her hands on his ones, which were still holding his horse's reins.

 


	4. Life isn't fair!

 

“It shouldn't be him!” Brienne thought, and her eyes burned. It should be Renly. Or probably even Jaime. Not him. Yet, she wouldn't weep she told herself. After all, it was her who was responsible for her predicament.

At long last, Ser Hyle Hunt was about to win his damned wager. The other men weren't there any more... but it was still between them, and it was what counted. Everything she had ever wanted had crumbled under her rough, calloused, ugly fingers. Even her wish to be independent, if nothing else.

The knight's face loomed up above her while she was lying on her back. Their clothes were gone, and she could see he was aroused. Or at least down there he was – yet his hazel eyes were strangely grave, even sad, she realised with quite a bit of confusion.

“I don't understand it, Brienne. Why did you speak this vow if you're not... ready? I thought you had changed your mind.”

The tall warrior woman looked to the side, blushing. Lady Stoneheart had hung them both, they had nearly died, they both still bore the rope's marks around their necks; and of late, Ser Hyle was more serious than he had used to be. The rope had changed her, too. Her nerves were strangely frayed, and Ser Hyle had sometimes consoled her with friendly words, or had sometimes diverted her with his teases from that nervousness. And only this morning, her mind had been so overcast it had been black, so that when they had accidentally come across a septon she had given in to a whim and had told herself that she wanted to belong somewhere, or to someone before her death. After that, they had lodged themselves in a proper inn for the wedding night, a rare luxury, because they were still travelling the roads and didn't have much money left.

 

The soft bed, however, had not improved Brienne's mood, now that she knew what would happen any moment.

Defensively she murmured at her bridegroom: “You've got what you wanted, haven't you? You're entitled to Tarth now. And you're entitled to my body. I won't shy away from my duty.”

Ser Hyle's nostrils flared on hearing this and he japed darkly: “You know... I've always been the greedy lad, and nice as those things are I don't think they're enough.”

Brienne looked up at him again, perplexed. What else could he have in mind?

Just then, she saw how his face fall, as if he were resigning, and heard him go on: “But I guess I have to limit myself in that case. There is neither turning back the time, nor undoing mistakes.”

Next, he positioned himself at her entrance and entered her with a swift thrust.

Brienne bit her lips, but after a few moments the sting receded, and she felt her bridegroom deep inside her body.

A shuddering little moan erupted against her neck and sent a awkward, hot wave down her spine. “Brienne!”

The tall warrior woman was even more puzzled now. Herbridegroom sounded overwhelmed, relieved and yearning, all at the same time. Well, she herself was naturally unsettled since she had never experienced this, but Ser Hyle was an old hand when it came to bedding a woman; he also had at least one bastard daughter, from all she knew.

Slowly, he started to move gently and Brienne was pretty busy to make herself stay as relaxed as possible in the face of this first invasion. Still, she was surprised, and her bewilderment even grew as they proceeded. No, she had not expected him to be deliberately rough or even cruel, but she had assumed he'd be careless, superficial. Only he wasn't.

With his rising lust a man emerged whom she had never seen, a man who wanted to give her some joy as well, if she didn't err completely. His touches and thrusts were nothing less than tender. And when his control started to slip away, he suddenly crushed her to him and kissed her hungrily. Brienne's body came awake with a jolt then, leaving her without orientation. It was too late to catch up with his arousal, because all his muscled suddenly seemed to tighten, and he uttered a frothing grunt between clenched teeth. Then, he fell on top of her, going limp at once.

It was then that Brienne was grateful she was so tall and strong, because Ser Hyle's body would have surely knocked the air out of a more delicate woman's lungs. At the same time, her body protested. On the one hand, she felt sore... and on the other hand, her womanhood was throbbing with need, little as she could believe it. It annoyed her no end. This wasn't fair!

Her husband opened his eyes, and they were sleepy now. Sleepy, but also guarded. As if he was fearing something, though Brienne didn't know what it might be. Hesitantly, her fingers trailed the scar next to his ear. At length, the corners of his mouth moved up for the tiniest fraction and he rested his chin on her all too flat chest. Her finger moved further down his face and along the curve of his lips.

Finally, he grinned and said: “I've always believed you'd look so flushed and sweet after having been fucked. And I promise that next time I'll make it better for you. You may not love me, but I'll make you love my body. And your own one, too.”

“What!?” Brienne called out, scandalised, and she didn't know how it came to that, but suddenly, they were in a middle of a pillow fight and laughing.

When they were getting tired and the thumping sounds of a protesting person in an adjoining room had calmed them Ser Hyle held out his hand and he asked: “Friends?”

In the past, Brienne would have called him names, but now, she smiled.


	5. You can't choose your family...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabbles are always good for experimenting; here, I've got my first Tyrion POV, simply because I wanted to try out what it's like to write him.

 

So his stupid, spoiled nephew was doing it again. He could still hear the Hound's “Enough!” hover in the air while Lady Sansa was cowering at the king's feet like a lifeless ragdoll, bleeding. They had gone as far as partly stripping her this time. In front of the whole court. Even from his point of view Tyrion could see more of the girl's delicate skin than was adequate by any means.

Unbidden, bitter memories of Tysha, his first whore – the one he had believed to be an innocent, loving girl – bubbled up in the Imp's mind as he was waddling through the throne room, but he pushed the disgusting and shameful recollections aside. Lady Sansa was different, she was a high-born maiden, under different conditions (i.e. if he weren't a dwarf and hated by his proud High Lord Father) she'd even have been a match for him, she likely was still a key to the north, and he had to do something about this abhorring display of sadism ... even though she didn't like him. Well, of course she didn't, given that he wasn't only deformed and ugly, but also a member of the family who was responsible for her father's execution.

With his mismatched eyes he noticed the Hound step ahead and put his white cloak of the King's Guard around her body to cover her. Another ugly creature Lady Sansa feared. Yet now she was simply grateful that her momentary ordeal was over.

For a few seconds, Tyrion pondered the symbolic irony of the Hound's gesture. Moreover, the fact that Clegane had more honour and compassion and common sense in him than all the others in the throne room – his good-for-nothing nephew most of all – bothered him mightily.

As usual, Joffrey didn't realise that his arbitrary behaviour and the public killing and torturing of his subjects would surely fall back on himself one day. If you kept showing the people what you could do even to the mightiest people in the realm they'd come to realise soon enough that the same could happen to them any moment, too – and from then on, it only needed one successful person to pluck up enough courage to dispose of the tyrant. One kingslayer...

For that reason, the Imp called his nephew to the carpet while a weak, trembling Lady Sansa was being led away. Joffrey pouted, because his entertainment had been cut short. What a misdirected boy! Tyrion thought of Jaime and fat Robert and Cersei – though mostly of his sister, because she had used to have the greatest influence on her son and had infiltrated him with arrogant hatred –, and he would have liked to ask them: “See what you've created! This boy king is your work. Are you proud?”

The cynical part of him knew he didn't want to have an answer to that question.


	6. Focus on armour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one-shot is dedicated to Lady_Blade_WarAngel. :-)

“I didn't want to do it, Jaime, I swear I didn't – only... I didn't want to see Podrick hang... nor Ser Hyle. What should I have done?"

 

Brienne was weeping. The strong, steadfast Maid of Tarth, crying like a child.

Jaime felt bitter about her treachery, but at least they had survived Lady Stoneheart's nooses. Unfortunately, the two others had not; they had already been dead upon his and Brienne's arrival, as they had found out before revealing themselves to the Brotherhood without Banners.

 

The wench wiped her eyes angrily, took her sword and held it out towards Jaime: “Here. Take Oathkeeper back. I'm not worthy of carrying it.”

Jaime cocked his eyebrow and commented: “What about the rest of your armour?”

Brienne looked down at her body, taken aback for a moment. Then, she nodded defiantly.

She tore at the leather fastenings, and with clattering sounds one piece after the other landed on the ground. Hauberk, breastplate, scabbard...

 

Finally, she stood before him, tall and strong as ever in her breeches and her tunic, but with rope marks around her neck and with slumped shoulders.

In spite of feeling deceived it pained Jaime to see her so subdued.

After all, who was he – as an oathbreaker himself – to judge her thus? He sighed and tried to run his hand through his hair, until he noticed that it was his right arm and therefore his effort nearly futile.

 

Instead, Jaime made a step into Brienne's direction. Another one. And another one.

Now, he was standing right in front of the wench. He looked up into her blue eyes, though she tried to avert her gaze. Their noses nearly touched.

“What about the other kind of armour, Brienne?” he finally said in a softer voice.

She wrinkled her brow.

“What do you mean? There's nothing left.”

Jaime, however, murmured: “Oh yes, there is.”

 

His good hand touched her where her heart was. Brienne understood and flushed red. She made a little step back and looked into the distance.

“Why do you do this?” she asked. “And now, of all times. After what I've done to you?”

Jaime grinned sadly.

“Wouldn't you say we're more alike now? More on one level? Propriety of morals may be overrated these times, come to think of it. I'd prefer a flawed wench to an inaccessible perfect maid.”

Brienne snorted slightly.

“I've never been perfect. Just look at me, in case you have forgotten.”

 

Jaime got irritable.

“Fuck, why are you so afraid of my kiss?”

Brienne winced, incredulous.

“Afraid of what!?”

“A kiss. That's when one person puts his or her mouth onto the one of another. In case YOU have forgotten.”

Brienne stared at him with her sapphire eyes, disbelief written all over her unsightly features.

 

Jaime was having enough of her behaviour then, took her chin with his left hand, rose onto his toes and pressed a kiss onto her lips, and never ending his look deep into her eyes during the procedure.

“See what I mean, wench?”

 

Brienne goggled at him.

“Why did you do that, Jaime? What cruel jape is this?”

Jaime huffed: “None at all. But I feel I've got to repeat this action until you have understood and discarded your last piece of armour. Don't you understand me? When I love I don't care what the woman in question does. My heart comes without a price.”

 

Having made his point clear, he grabbed Brienne, who yelped, and kissed her again, angrily, hungrily, passionately. He hadn't realised his feelings for her prior to this statement, and it was an unsettling notion for him – but he also knew that what he had just admitted was the truth.

At first, Brienne was still stiff... but then, she gave in from one moment to the next and surrendered completely – and she carried him away with her into a maelstrom of the most intoxicating feelings... and even of lust, after a while.

 

An hour later, they lay together in the green grass of the Riverlands, naked and sated by their first coupling.

It was then that Jaime suggested: “Let's go to Casterly Rock. I'll leave the King's Guard. I won't let people call you my whore.”

“You'd do that?” Brienne breathed.

Jaime noddeded.

“Yes, and without remorse even. Besides, with my one hand I'm not suitable for that task any more. Now the only thing is...”

“What, Jaime?”

“I guess a woman like you wouldn't want a ring. What about a golden gauntlet then?”


	7. A flying and/or falling experience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this is an angsty crack!shot.

He was being dragged in front of the Dragon Queen, although he tried to fend off the guards, but to no avail. He was fit from digging graves, sure enough, but he hadn't fought all winter, he didn't wear any armour, had no weapons either, but he was limping badly. No chance of escaping his custodians.

 

Flop! the guards dumped him in front of the young Targaryen woman, who had recently conquered the Iron Throne.

 

“This is the Hound, Sandor Clegane,” a well-known and despised voice announced.

“So you have survived the winter as well, Imp?” Sandor growled.

“Quiet! Sandor Clegane, you will not befoul this court with your speech, unless Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Queen of Mereen, Queen of Pentos, and Princess of Dragonstone asks you to speak,” Lord Jorah Mormont – the queen's private consort (or rather lover) – called.

Sandor snorted. So much wasted breath and time for all these posh titles. Only people with an inferiority complex needed to point out their social position permanently. Still, the scarred man whom people had known as the Hound, and whom others had called Gravedigger for years now didn't utter an acid retort, though he would have liked to do so.

 

There was a moment's silence, and Sandor dared to look up from his kneeling position.

The rumours were true: with her silvery hair Daenaerys Targaryen was an incredibly beautiful young woman. Not as beautiful as the Little Bird, of course, but still. Her violet eyes were stony.

 

She stood up and walked over to him. He could see her feet in sandals right in front of him.

“You are wearing a simple robe as if you were a humble, religious man – and not a member of one of the most despicable families in Westeros, or a serial killer. Why is this so?”

 

Sandor replied in his dark, scratchy voice: “I've been a silent brother on the Quiet Isle for years, repenting my sins.”

“Have you taken the vows?”

“I don't swear any vows.”

“But he does swear a lot in general,” Tyrion Lannister cut in and grinned.

Sandor wanted to bark back at the Imp, but he wasn't the Hound any more. He had learned to control himself. So he just looked at the little man in cold composure.

 

Daenaerys arched an eyebrow.

“I wonder whether you have truly changed for the better or not. This Queen is willing to be merciful, but I need to know. It is known that animals can be more intelligent than us humans, because they've got better instincts and senses. So you will face one of my dragons, Sandor Clegane. If he spares you, you may go and live in peace henceforth.”

 

A cold shiver ran down Sandor's spine. He cringed.

A dragon! Fire made flesh.

“Queen Daenaerys, please decapitate me here and now with a sword, I won't shy away from it... but please no dragon!”

Lord Jorah, however, snarled at him: “The Queen has spoken, and spoken wisely. You'll be confronted with a dragon, and that's the end of it.”

Sandor started to shake violently, and tears were streaming down his face before he even realised he was weeping.

Tyrion was staring at him now, likely recollecting the Hound's fear of fire during the Battle of the Blackwater and the ensuing desertion, but Sandor didn't care one whit.

 

Some two or three hours later, the guards had to carry him into the dragon pit, because his knees wouldn't support Sandor, and he was retching all the time. Then, he was left alone on the sand of the arena, and he cowered in fear. Fire had always been his week spot, so nothing of his impressive appearance was left.

 

“Viserion!” he heard the Queen call from her gallery.

Mighty gates were opened, the earth vibrated from massive steps, steps that belonged to a very big beast.

Sandor whimpered. The giant animal was directly in front of him now. He could feel the warmth it radiated.

Next, he heard something very close. The dragon was lowering its head and... and... sniffing at him. At that moment, Sandor lost control over his bladder. It didn't matter any more, he told himself.

He thought of the Little Bird. If he had to die, at least he wanted to do so with a sweet memory.

 

There, was a light, scaly touch. The dragon nudged him with its muzzle.

Frantically, Sandor asked himself, if it wanted to play a cruel game with him like a cat would with a mouse.

 

Suddenly, there was another touch, this time hot... and wet... and all over his body: the dragon licked him. Had Sandor not already pissed himself in fear he would have done so now.

A second lick followed the first one. And a third. By now, he was sticky from dragon saliva.

 

There were bouts of laughter from the ranks.

Sandor heard Lord Jorah say: “What on earth...?”

Only then, did it dawn on Sandor that something wasn't going quite as planned.

 

He dared to look up.

A cream-and-gold-coloured monster was towering above him and looking him directly in the eyes. Sandor detected an alien intelligence that went beyond his understanding.

Viserion bowed down once more – and started to wash him from the front. Carefully and thoroughly. Now, Sandor was covered in piss and dragon goo alike.

Shit.

Yet – he was still alive.

 

Suddenly, big talons grabbed him by the waist... and next, he was lifted into the air. Sandor yelped in shock. Higher and higher the dragon rose, and it was good Sandor had nothing left inside of him, or it would have rained down on the dragon pit – probably even the spectators.

Sandor heard the flapping sounds of the dragon's wings and something akin to... well, it almost sounded like purring.

Did dragons purr?

He didn't have a clue. Tyrion would have known. The little bugger knew everything about dragons.

 

Then, it happened: Viserion dived – and made a graceful somersault in the air.

Sandor was far less graceful, and he retched again, even if his stomach was empty.

“Please don't let me fall, please don't let me fall, please...,” he begged silently, unable to utter any coherent words.

 

After what felt like eternity, the dragon circled above the dragon pit again, lower and lower... and then, it dumped Sandor on the gallery, right in front of the Queen's feet. Sandor panted and trembled, but didn't move otherwise.

 

“Well, that was an obvious verdict. Viserion loves the Hound,” Tyrion commented sarcastically.

“I thought Viserion was male...?”

That was Lord Jorah's voice.

Queen Daenaerys snapped: “Viserion IS male!”

“Perhaps he's late Prince Renly Baratheon's scaly counterpart?” Tyrion offered.

“Don't mention the usurper's family name!” the Queen hissed.

 

“Well,” she went on in a sourly tone. “Viserion's has made his stance clear. Sandor Clegane is pardoned. Get him out of my eyes now. He's slimy and smelly.”

 

Sandor could barely believe what he was hearing.

He had been spared!

Spared by a dragon!

 

“He should get a bath,” a female voice said. “Shall I organize it?”

“If you want to take it upon you, Lady Sansa,” Queen Daenaerys conceded.

“L... L...?” Sandor uttered in absolute surprise.

He had not seen her at court in the morning.

“Yes, Lady Sansa,” the Little Bird cut in.

 

“Are you sure you want to do this? He's disgusting. Pathetic. He has befouled himself,” the Imp ventured, and Sandor wanted to cut him into tiny little pieces.

“A true lady would also take care of the wounded after a battle – and I don't think they'd be any cleaner or would smell any better.”

Tyrion shrugged at that and said nothing more.

 

A delicate hand touched Sandor's cheek – the burned one. Sansa was standing there, smiling down on him benevolently like the Maiden herself. How could this be true?

 

Stronger arms grabbed him and carried him away, into a chamber with a bathtub.

Slowly, he came back to himself, and he started to peel off his robe...

… until he realised Sansa was still with him.

 

“Little Bird,” he rasped feebly.

“Feeling better?” Sansa asked.

Sandor didn't even manage to nod. He could only stare at the beautiful grown woman in front of him.

“You should get rid of those dirty rags. I daresay that they're beyond washing and mending.”

Sandor's eyes bulged.

“But... but... I can't get naked in front of you.”

Sansa laughed.

“Sure you can. I'm a wedded woman.”

Sandor felt as if he had been hit by a club.

“Oh. Yes. I forgot. The Imp.”

 

Sansa's laughter chimed in the room.

“Fortunately, our marriage will be annulled soon. He doesn't love me, and I don't love him, and we've both reached an agreement.”

Sandor's thoughts went rampant.

“But Little Bird, how could your marriage get annulled after all those years? You'd be examined by the Faith and everything.”

Now, Sansa blushed, but she kept on smiling.

“Oh, that's no obstacle. Tyrion – he... you know... he didn't... and nobody else either.”

 

Sandor thought he had misheard.

“You mean – he hasn't bedded you? You're still a maid? How would that be possible with the bloody Imp? And in that case, I can't simply put off my clothes, just like I thought.”

Sansa flushed crimson now.

“It's true. And no, it's no problem. I've seen him naked, and seeing you won't rob me of my maidenhood.”

 

Well, those were some news. Slowly, he discarded his clothes, and he was strangely nervous; he had never been more conscious of his ugly body.

Behind him, there was a sharp intake of breath to be heard.

“What, Little Bird? Already regretting your offer to wash an ugly, scarred dog?” he growled.

 

“Quite the contrary! Sweet Mother, you're impressive! That's something different from my hus... from Tyrion.”

Sandor looked owlish for a moment; then, he barked his laughter.

“Oh, I see. We're both as ugly as sin, and yes, I surely have got more flesh to offer, even if it's scarred and everything.”

 

Sansa giggled and said ominously: “What a pity it would have been, if my plan hadn't worked.”

At once, Sandor grew suspicious.

“What do you mean – “plan”?”

The Little Bird giggled again and murmured under her breath: “You see: I had heard at court that you'd been found and that you'd be brought in front of Queen Daenaerys. I had an inkling what her judgement would be. She's done the same with Lord Baelish, Lord Bolton and Lord Tarly, you know. So I organised a secret feeding of the dragons. It was initially Tyrion's idea – he saved Ser Jaime this way, and now I could blackmail him: either three extra cows for each dragon, or I'd tell Queen Daenaerys of how his brother got away, in spite of being the Kingslayer. So Tyrion managed to put his grudge for you aside for the time being.”

 

Sandor looked at the Little Bird in wonder.

“You've learned to play the Game of Thrones. And you've saved my life. Why?”

“You saved my life more than once, Sandor, back under Joffrey's rule. You never allowed me to thank you then, so I did it now in my own way. Though...”

“What, Little Bird?”

Sansa giggled once moe.

“Ah, seeing you now like this I'm getting very egoistic and greedy thoughts, and I'm curious to see you without being covered in dragon spittle. Off into the bathtub with you!”

 

Sandor thought he needed to pinch himself to make sure he wasn't asleep – or already in the afterlife.

“You've changed, Sansa.”

“We both have, I'd say. You've even found out what it's like to do a somersault with a dragon.”

“Fuck, are you teasing me!? One more bloody word, and I'll pull you into water with me!”

“Haha, but you can still swear like in the old times. And I thought you had forgotten how to – eeeeeeeeek!”

 

With a wild splash, they landed in the water, Sansa protesting and laughing in equal measures, and Sandor just barking in glee. And suddenly, he thought he'd even fly with a dragon again, if that meant he could cause the Little Bird to laugh more often.


End file.
